The Dangerous Art of Blending In

by Angelo Surmelis

  “Okay.” I just lie there looking at the ceiling and wondering, How the hell do I explain this?

  “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  “I was attacked.”

  “The others said you attacked them as well.”

  The more I open my mouth to speak, the more I realize how much it hurts to move it.

  “How many stories are there?”

  “Well, Scott and Tommy have their version and then there are a few opposing ones from the crowd.”

  “I was trying to protect myself.”

  “Protect yourself from what? Why did they attack you?”

  I lie, “I don’t know.”

  “We’re going to investigate this. Apparently there’s some cell phone video as well.”

  I mutter under my breath. “Great.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I don’t feel great. It hurts to move my lips.”

  “Luckily, as I said earlier, you haven’t broken anything as far as we can tell. Your parents are outside and ready to take you to the doctor for X-rays and home. We’ll get to the bottom of this. We do not tolerate any kind of violence in this school. But for the moment, I just want you to be well. Is there anything you want to tell me?”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Just so you know, there could be some long-term suspension that you and your friends may be facing.”

  “Suspension?” I slowly get up and am now sitting on the sofa.

  “We’ll talk about that later.”

  I look away from the principal. I don’t say anything. I’ve learned that after every beating I should become as silent and as small as possible.

  “Evan?”

  I’m still looking away as I say, “I didn’t start this. I was attacked.”

  I look at him now. He’s studying me.

  “Who? Who started it? Tell me.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “We’re going to investigate and find out what happened here. At the very least there will be a suspension. Across the board. It’s a holiday week and right now you and the rest of those involved will be suspended from school until the Monday after Thanksgiving. I’m going to review everything that happened and we will all reconvene next week.” His voice is firm yet calm.

  I shake my head slightly and softly say, “Not fair.”

  “Now would be a good time for you to open up.”

  “It’s difficult.”

  “Evan, you’re a good kid. You never get into trouble. You maintain a very level presence. Don’t let this one-time mistake define you. Just tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t know. I blacked out.”

  He’s silent for a moment. Then: “Maybe the video holds some answers. Okay? You may still have to speak to the police about this. Fighting on school grounds is a serious offense. I’ll keep you and your family informed.”

  “Okay.”

  Mr. Balderini gets up and puts the chair back, then extends a hand in my direction. “Here, let me help you up.”

  I grab his hand and lift myself up. I notice for the first time that my knuckles are raw and my hands are all scratched up. I’m standing next to the sofa. “Thank you.”

  “Evan, if there’s anything else, anything you remember, please call me.”

  My parents are right outside the office. They both take one look at me and their eyes widen. I haven’t seen what I look like yet, but I’m figuring this would have worked better about a month ago for Halloween. I know my mom is going to be very upset that I won’t look my best for Thanksgiving.

  “Evan, let’s get you home. You have an appointment with a doctor tomorrow.” My father extends his hand.

  “I can walk. Not too fast, but I can walk.” I try to smile a bit to show that I’m okay. My mother looks horrified.

  We get to the car, and once the doors close she bursts into tears. “What happened, my beautiful boy?”

  I’m stunned.

  “Evan, are you okay? What happened?” My father is looking at me from the rearview mirror.

  “Where’s my backpack?”

  My dad says, “It’s in the trunk.”

  “Who gave it to you?”

  “The principal. We have it.”

  I feel around in my pockets and my phone is still in there.

  “I bet String Bean is involved in this somehow. You cannot hang out with that boy again, do you hear me?”

  “Vee, how could he? He’s his best—”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  I stay silent.

  “They’ve ruined Thanksgiving. These boys. Ruined it. How are we going to take you anywhere looking like this? How are you going to be able to go back to work? You can’t work looking like you do!”

  Here’s the deal about never being authentically loved by your parents: The most fucked-up gesture or morsel of compassion is like a warm blanket.

  The rest of the ride is in silence.

  In my room, I unzip my backpack. I let out as big a sigh as I can and quickly realize that it hurts to exhale or inhale, unless I do small, short breaths.

  The journal is still there.

  I can hear my parents arguing in the living room. Usually when they fight, I get as close to my door as possible and listen to see if she’s mad at him. It’s oddly comforting to hear them fighting about something other than me. This time, I know it’s about me. I don’t listen. I walk over to my closet, open one of the doors, and look at myself in the full-length mirror. Not as bad as I thought. I’ve looked worse. I have a bandage on my nose with a little dried blood coming out of my nostrils. My eyes are black. My jaw looks a little bruised and swollen, my lips are a bit beaten up, and I must have a cut over my left eye, because there’s a bandage there.

  My phone is vibrating. I take it out and look at the screen. It’s Henry. I don’t pick up. I take out my journal from my backpack and begin to draw. I draw my face. Not as it is right now, but without any cuts, bruises, or scars. It’s clean, strong, and calm.

  I can’t hear my parents anymore. I wait. I listen. It sounds like they’ve stopped fighting. Shit, that means I’m going to have company. I quickly shove the phone back into my pocket. My door swings opens and they both come in.

  “We’ve been invited to Helen and Dean Boutouris’s house.” My mother says this as if they have received a White House invitation and like we all don’t already know it. Repeating good news is a thing.

  The thing about Thanksgiving in our family is that as much as everyone loves food, Thanksgiving is one of those holidays when they wing it at the last minute. No planning, no traditional Thanksgiving feast, just a wait-and-see-what-happens attitude. And if we don’t get invited somewhere, we’ve been known to drive the streets of Illinois on Thanksgiving Day looking for an open restaurant.

  This is the same family that literally cannot let a Wednesday go by without an all-day menu planning and cook fest, no matter how much they have to work. They will shop, cook, and feast—as long as it isn’t Thanksgiving!

  I’ve wanted a traditional sit-down Thanksgiving meal for as long as I can remember, just not with my family.

  “I’m so tired and I feel really . . .”

  “Would you rather stay home?” Mom strokes my hair and rests the palm of her hand on my left cheek. She turns to look at my dad. “It may be best for him to rest.” He looks at me, nods his head, and sighs. She turns her attention back to me. “I’ll make you your favorite, pastitsio, okay?”

  My pocket is vibrating again.

  I try to casually place my hand over it and speak louder in order to muffle the sound. “Mom, you don’t have to. I know how busy—”

  “Don’t be silly. I want to. Look at you. You should rest and eat.” She goes over to my bed and turns down the covers. She pats the pillow. “Here. Get in bed. You need your rest. I will get all the food ready for you for the big meal. All you’ll have to do is heat it up.”

  My dad clears his throat. “You should probably get some rest. You
r mother and I are going to go to the grocery store to shop for the week. Rest. Please.”

  My mother says, “You have an appointment at Dean’s medical office tomorrow at twelve fifteen.”

  “What?”

  “Dean’s a doctor and our friend now. We called Helen when this happened—”

  My dad interrupts her. “You called Helen, not we.”

  “I made an appointment for you at his office. He’ll see you tomorrow to make sure that everything is okay. I’ll be cooking and your father will be at work. You’ll have to take the bus. I’m sorry.” She points to the bed again. I remove my shoes and get in. Fully clothed. “Oh, and we didn’t tell them what happened. We said you were in a car accident.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “Tell him you were in someone else’s car and it was a hit and run. We don’t want them thinking that this horrible thing happened to you.” She bends over and tucks me in. “We want to protect you.”

  She smiles and kisses my right cheek.

  They both exit my room.

  This kind of behavior always messes with my head. It makes me believe this can be real. That care, concern, and love are real. I long for this. I can see it right before my eyes. It’s the normal that I want, but it’s not real. The question is: Can it ever be? It makes me wish my mother would always be cruel and horrible and unforgiving, because at least that’s something I can count on.

  I wait to hear their car drive off.

  Once they’re safely gone, I look at my phone.

  No messages, but there are a bunch of texts from Henry:

  Call me!

  R u ok?

  Plz call me.

  Claire & I r driving bck. Plz call.

  Driving as fast as we can. B in twn soon!

  And a text from Jeremy:

  Hey Panos. U ok?

  Fuck Jeremy. I ignore his text.

  Instead I text Henry:

  I’m home--all good--don’t wrry--plz drive safe!

  Henry instantly replies:

  Bout 1 hr away--coming over.

  Oh no.

  No.

  This is not a good idea.

  No! U can’t--plz. 2much crzy here right now.

  Hopefully that will stop him.

  But no.

  Cming over. Have2!

  You’re just going to have to tell him.

  I’m not allowed 2cu--it’ll b 2much trbl frm parents.

  Please, please let this be the thing that stops him. I can’t deal right now and I need to deal. I need life to just be calm again, to go back to having everything in neat little compartments.

  But what if I don’t want to? What if that’s not who I am anymore?

  I feel this weird panic.

  A few minutes go by, and no response from Henry. That’s a good sign, but I probably upset him. Maybe if I call him, I can tell him exactly what I mean.

  Just as I’m about to, another text comes in:

  I’ll park away frm apt. They won’t c my car--u sneak me in--will let u know when there.

  thirty-one

  Even though I haven’t been able to sleep, my phone buzzing startles me out of a daze and I fumble for it.

  I’m here.

  Hey

  Evan?

  I start to type, but I’m groggy:

  OK.

  I get up and weave a bit getting to my bedroom door. I steady myself and head toward the front door. I look through the peephole and see him standing there. Even with the way a peephole can alter your features, he still looks like the guy I want to kiss more than anything else. I open the door. He looks at me and starts to cry.

  “Do I look that bad?”

  He leans in and places his head against mine. He pulls back a little and whispers, “Are they here?” I shake my head. “I don’t know where I can touch you. I don’t want to make anything hurt.”

  “You couldn’t possibly do any more damage. I never thought I’d say this, but we have to go into my bedroom.” I’m leading him to my room. “My parents are at the store. I don’t know when they’ll be home, but I’m not supposed to see you. This is . . .”

  “I’m so sorry. Ev, I’m sorry.” He follows me to my room.

  We enter and I close the door behind us.

  “You didn’t do this.” I sit on my bed and look back at him.

  “I did. I came out to my parents and somehow word must have reached school. This happened to you because you’re friends with me. I shouldn’t have said anything. I was being—”

  “You didn’t do this.”

  Henry stops and looks around my room. “I feel like I know this place, but I’ve never been in here. Everything is so . . .”

  “It helps me. It helps to have everything in its place and neat.”

  He comes over and kneels in front of me. He puts his hands gently on my knees.

  “I want to make every one of them feel pain. Who was it?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Really. I want things to calm down. Can they just be normal again, please?”

  Right now. Here in my room with this boy, I feel wounded and brave all at the same time. This boy—just looking into his eyes—makes me strong and vulnerable.

  He lifts up from his knees slightly and we kiss. His hands are on the back of my head and mine are on his shoulders. He kisses my eyes. He moves to the cut above my left one and kisses there, too. Then to the bandage on my nose and then to my swollen and bruised chin. The last thing he kisses are my hands.

  My parents are still out shopping. I’m taking a huge risk, but I want to. I turn off my phone. Henry lies next to me and we drift off to sleep quickly.

  I’m suddenly awake and reach over to my nightstand. I turn on my phone. It’s 3:19 a.m. And then I see the phone is filled with texts. I ignore them. Henry is curled up in a ball behind me. His head is wedged into the middle of my back and his left hand is wrapped around my waist. I try to slowly move my body away from his and out of bed. Everything feels extra achy and stiff. I shuffle toward the door and put my left ear to it. I do my usual checks to make sure the coast is clear.

  “Ev?”

  I go back to the bed as quickly and silently as possible. I lean in and whisper, “Shhh. We have to get you out before my dad wakes up. He’s usually up by four.”

  Henry makes a face and whispers, “Why can’t it be like this all the time? Minus you in pain and without us being in your parents’ place. Other than that, like this all the time.”

  Right now, in this moment, he looks like he did all those times we’d go camping with his parents in Wisconsin. We’d wake up in the morning, early, just before the sun. His hair would be sticking up in the back like a crown, but all it took was a quick finger comb and it was back to normal.

  His squinty eyes seem even more downturned at the edges, and his lips are so pink. I look at him and think the exact same thing, Why can’t it be like this all the time?

  “I’m going to go out and see if anyone’s up. Get your stuff and be ready to go once I come back.” I make my way to the door.

  I unlock it and go out into the hallway. I take a few steps and peek into the living room. All clear there. There’s a bathroom between my room and my parents’. I listen at their door. I hold my breath. I can hear snoring. My dad is definitely asleep. It’s fifty-fifty with my mother. I walk back toward the door of my bedroom, stick my head into the room, and signal for Henry to come out.

  The walk to the front door seems like the longest journey. Once there, I unlock it oh-so-quietly and turn to Henry. I give him a half smile and then look back down the hallway. He turns my head toward his and kisses me a little longer than I’m comfortable with in this situation. I push down on the door to open it, since I can minimize the squeaking by doing that. It still creaks and cracks a bit. He runs out and I close and lock it. I exhale. Was I holding my breath the whole time?

  Walking back to my room, I hear my parents’ bedroom door open. My mother pokes her head out and spots me.

 
“You finally up?” She starts to come out into the hall. She’s tying her robe around her waist and walks past me. Once she’s in the kitchen, I hear her ask, “You want coffee?”

  “Okay.” I walk into the dining area, which is open to the small kitchen.

  Her back is to me. She’s at the sink filling the coffeepot with water. She then fills the coffee maker and turns it on. She comes and sits opposite me at the table.

  “I heard the door. Were you outside?”

  I think quickly. “The cold air feels good on my face. The swelling and all.”

  She gets up, goes to the freezer, and grabs a bag of peas. She hands it to me.

  “Here, put this on your face.” She sits back down. “Your father didn’t want to wake you last night. We got home after ten, went to the mall too. Did you eat anything?”

  I shake my head. “I was tired. I just slept.” I can hear the coffee start to brew.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay.”

  We sit and look at each other. The six-year-old in me can’t help but think, Maybe this is a new her, a new us. Maybe from now on she will change, be like other mothers are. Maybe everything will be okay.

  “Your life isn’t hard.” She looks right into my eyes. “You have a roof over your head. You have both your parents. You have food. And that man in there”—she points in the direction of their bedroom—“he sacrifices everything for us.”

  “I know. He does.”

  “But you’re ungrateful.”

  Something turns in my stomach. I’m thinking, No, no. Don’t do this. Don’t be this person. Don’t be you.

  She sounds calm. There’s no yelling or exaggerated hand gestures, which somehow makes it worse. She gets up to grab three mugs and the sugar from the cupboard above the sink and the cream from the fridge. She puts them down on the table in front of me and sits back in her chair.

  “What are you going to do for him?”

  I’m so lost in my thoughts that it takes me a minute. “Who?”

  Don’t say anything else, because if you do it will only be worse. Don’t say a word.

  She says, “Your father. We can’t pay for you to go to college. You don’t want to help him open the restaurant? You would work for a stranger and not for your own father? That’s not why we came to this country. Are you not proud of your family?”